


the grass where you lay (left a bed in your shape)

by kathikon



Series: strawberry blond [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Emotional Infidelity, Episode: s01e03 Screwby, Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia Again, Light Angst, Literall James is So Far In the Closet he's in Narnia, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Violence, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Sad Ending, Trombley Has Issues(tm), Unrequited Crush, injury mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25743364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathikon/pseuds/kathikon
Summary: “I don’t think you’re a psycho,” he said finally, breaking the uneasy silence that had built itself up in their little bubble.“It’s okay if you do.” James redid his MOPP suit jacket and flak vest, turning to look at Walt through his good eye. “Everyone else does.”“I don’t,” Walt said softly, not meeting James’ eyes, just looking out into the night, into the desert.Maybe you should.
Relationships: James Trombley/Original Female Character, Walt Hasser/James Trombley
Series: strawberry blond [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877992
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	the grass where you lay (left a bed in your shape)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "strawberry blond" -- mitski
> 
> No disrespect/assumptions are being made about any real people. This is a work of fiction based on the HBO Miniseries starring Pawel Szjada, Billy Lush, and others.

“Walt, do you think I’m a psycho?”   


James’ voice was low and soft in the night, even when Walt turned to squint at him, one side of his mouth curling up the way it always did when he furrowed his eyebrows and looked too hard at something.

The moonlight drew an outline along Walt’s spine that looked like it’d been drawn in chalk, and his eyes gleamed silver as they regarded each other, severe and careless at once.

“Why?” The twang in his voice was thick, from dehydration or exhaustion or the dust that they all breathed in constantly these days, and his helmet threw sharp shadows over his tanned face, making him look more gaunt than they had all grown on one MRE a day. “Is Ray sayin’ stuff again? I told him to knock it off—”

There was a rush of fond warmth at those words— at the idea that Walt cared in some regard, at least enough to tell people to leave James alone, even Ray, who James was  _ pretty  _ sure Walt was making googly eyes at when he thought nobody was looking.

James wasn’t sure if he was jealous or disgusted at the idea of Walt looking at Ray  like  _ that. _

Maybe both. 

He wanted it, wanted some sort of human affection that he wouldn’t let himself have out here because it was illegal— it was illegal and wrong and he had a wife back home who was two months pregnant.

“No. Just— tired I guess. Trying to make conversation.” James shrugged half-heartedly and rubbed at his infected eye with the back of his knuckles, eyelashes tickling the thin skin stretched over bones there.

The feeling reminded him jarringly of that afternoon in Camp Matilda, right before they stepped off when they’d gotten mail, all those stupid fucking letters from elementary schoolers back home. James would never admit it, even with a gun to his head, but he thought they were kinda sweet, if not a little misguided. 

Walt’s eyelashes had been gold in the sunshine streaming in through the tent’s doorway as he laid on his stomach across his sleeping bag, letters in his hands. James had been looking even as he had been trying to listen to Ray’s newest rant, something about trees and communism that made his head spin.

He’d been looking because he’d  _ always _ been looking, saw the ghost of a smile when Walt looked up, nose almost brushing against the paper of the letter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, James wondered who was writing those letters, the ones that had to smell like perfume or Walt wouldn’t be holding them up to his face like that.

Did he love her?

James loved Lucrecia, he was pretty sure. In the silence between them, he turned back to looking out across the desert, the vast nothingness of red-orange dirt and berms that stretched out for miles, and thought of her.

Whatever he felt for Lu, it wasn’t what she wanted him to feel, he was almost sure. She was pretty in a way that reminded him of Sofia Vergara, all tan skin and long hair and soft curves, but when he jerked off behind the Humvee later that evening, too rough and too dry; all he could see was the way Walt poked his tongue out through his teeth, the sunburn along the bridge of his nose, freckled and peeling, and his stupid golden eyelashes.

He sucked in a wet gasp, head falling back against the wheel of their Humvee, breath coming out hot despite the cold night as he tried to push the image out of his mind despite how hard it made him, more than anything had, even the memories of Lucrecia standing shirtless in his parent’s’ pool the weekend before he’d left for Basic Training, droplets of water rolling down over skin.

“Fuck,” he panted out, catching his lower lip between his teeth, mind shuffling for more memories haphazardly, the trail of soft tawny hair that dipped past the waistband of Walt’s shorts when they’d sparred in the dirt, his muscular thighs bracketing Jame’s hips, chests heaving in tandem, a crooked smile, the sun making Walt’s pupils draw into pinpricks lost in the blue of his eyes.

With a low grunt, he was spilling over his hand, curling in on himself as his stomach muscles twitched and spasmed.    
James licked at his dry lips, panting hard as his ears and face burned with shame, already starting to feel sick at what he’d done.

This was kinda pathetic, wasn’t it? 

He wiped his hand and stomach off with a baby wipe, grimacing before he tucked himself back into his shorts, wiggling the suspenders of his MOPP suit back up over his shoulders before he just slumped back against the wheel well, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Trombley?” Walt’s voice carried from the other side of the cammie net and James opened his eyes just as Walt crawled into the space between the net and the Humvee. “Shit— were you—?” he let the question hang between them, frozen, until James shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter.”   


The moonlight threw dappled shadows across both of them, one of Walt’s eyes caught shining blue, a mirror to James’ own red one, itchy and infected still.

Doc had told him not to touch it, so he didn't, even though he sorta wanted to sometimes.

There had to be some sort of convoluted symbolic meaning to this that his old English teacher would have loved, between how much he wanted Walt and his fucked-up eye— things he shouldn’t want, couldn’t want, wouldn’t have.

No relief from either, both an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Walt sat next to him, shoulders almost brushing, and he sighed, nearly silent with the breeze and the rustle of the cammie nets, someone snoring softly somewhere amongst the Humvees.

“I don’t think you’re a psycho,” he said finally, breaking the uneasy silence that had built itself up in their little bubble.

“It’s okay if you do.” James redid his MOPP suit jacket and flak vest, turning to look at Walt through his good eye. “Everyone else does.”

“I don’t,” Walt said softly, not meeting James’ eyes.

_ Maybe you should _ .

For a moment, they just looked out into the night, into the desert.

What did Walt see out there, in the endless sand?

Walt chewed his lip, all thoughtful and James’ gaze drifted down to his soft mouth, to the little scar on his chin, the curve of his jaw up to his ear, all places he wanted to put his mouth, and stayed silent.

“You’re not a baby killer, man. Everyone was declared hostile under the ROE. You were following orders.” His voice was breathy, eyes dark and the shadows beneath them even darker. “It’s not your fault.” 

Their shoulders brushed, then arms and the backs of hands, Walt’s skin fever warm in the cold night air. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated, earnest and open, and for a moment, James almost believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> chronically underappreciated rarepair, especially since they hardly interact on-screen...  
> but that scene where walt tells ray about how good of a shot trombley is lives in my mind rent free


End file.
